Matters of the Heart
by SomewhereApart
Summary: "I figure you're sick of Violet, I'm pissed at Cooper.  Misery loves company, right?" Pete and Charlotte grab a bite and some much-needed time away from their spouses. Set after episode 5.02, "Breaking the Rules"


It's late when Pete's phone rings, but, much to Violet's disappointment, he's still up. It's not that he's not tired, but he wants to join her in the bedroom just about as much as he wants to cut off his own arm right now.

He glances at his phone, and sees _Charlotte King_ on the caller ID. He's self-aware enough to know he's not ready for a hospital shift, so he almost doesn't answer. But then he figures Charlotte wouldn't call him in to work, not so soon and so late in the day, so he presses TALK. "Hello."

"Hi." She sounds just a little agitated, but what's new? "Look, I know it's late, but I thought I might be able to talk you into goin' out, grabbin' somethin' to eat."

"Right now?" He glances at the clock. It's already after ten.

"Yeah. I'm, uh-" She sighs, and her voice has shifted just a little when she says to him, "I don't want to go home yet. Had a thing after work, I've spent the last half hour drivin' to avoid goin' back to my apartment, and now I'm hungry. Heard about your little outburst at the practice. I figure you're sick of Violet, I'm pissed at Cooper. Misery loves company, right?"

Pete smirks a little at that. She's not wrong; he'd love to get the hell out of here for a while. Even with her upstairs, he feels like Violet is hovering, watching him, just out of view. He knows she's not, but it bugs him anyway.

"Sure. Where do you want to meet?"

There's a slight pause before she says, "I'll pick you up."

"I can drive, Charlotte."

"Yeah, I know you can, but it's late and you worked all day-" He's about to interrupt right there and remind her he's not helpless, but she pre-empts him by raising her voice a little and continuing, "And I'm not sayin' you're not ready or not capable, but turnabout's fair play, Pete, and you didn't take any of my crap after… what happened to me, so I'm not takin' any of yours. I'm drivin'."

She's right. He'd pushed, then – just enough – and she's trying to do the same. And truth be told, he's exhausted. He exhales, drops his head back to the sofa, and nods even though she can't see him. "Fine."

"Be there in ten," she tells him, and then she's gone.

Pete climbs the stairs to the bedroom, and ignores Violet where she's reading in bed. She doesn't ignore him, though, especially when he heads for the dresser and pulls out a pair of jeans.

"You're getting dressed?"

He shucks the pajamas pants he'd changed into and steps into the jeans, telling her simply, "Yeah."

"Why?"

"I'm going out," he mutters, yanking them up and fastening the fly.

"Now? It's late-"

"Yeah, I know that, Violet."

He swaps his t-shirt for a long-sleeved top, and out of the corner of his eye sees Violet stash a bookmark between her pages, and set the book down. Great.

"Pete, I get that you're mad at me, but that's no reason to go risking your health-"

He turns to face her, then, finally, and tries to keep his temper in check when he says, "This isn't about you, Violet." Although it is, a little. "Charlotte called, she needs –"

"You're going to the hospital?" she asks, sitting up straighter in bed, and that's when he loses it.

"No, I'm not going to the hospital," he growls, moving to the closet and yanking a light jacket off a hanger. He can feel his pulse pounding, feel the slight tremble in his fingers. It's a familiar feeling these days. "She's pissed at Cooper, she wants to talk about it, so we're going out. Or do I need a permission slip to leave the house now?"

He slams the closet door shut for good measure, and curses himself when the bang wakes Lucas in the room next door.

Violet looks at him accusingly and pulls the covers back, muttering, "Fine. Go," as she passes him and heads for their son's room.

Pete sulks himself down the stairs, and only has to wait a minute before Charlotte's silver Mercedes pulls up and honks once, lightly. _Thank God_, he thinks, irritation still boiling through him as he pulls the front door open.

**.:.**

Charlotte pulls up to the house a few minutes earlier than she said she would, but she figures Pete's goin' stir crazy and probably won't mind. She's not sure whether to call or honk, but then she sees the light go on in Lucas' room, a slim shadow moving against the curtains, and figures she can risk the horn. Still, she only gives it a shallow tap, just enough for a short pop of sound that hopefully won't wake the kid if he's sleepin'.

Pete appears at the front door immediately, shutting it behind him and prowling toward the car. Oh yeah, he needs this as much as she does.

When he opens the passenger door, and dumps himself in the seat next to her, the cumulative tension in the car amps up a few degrees. Jesus, they're a couple of messes, aren't they?

"Rough night?" she drawls, easing back onto the road after he buckles his seatbelt.

"My mommy thinks it's too late for me to go out and play," he tells her, and Charlotte snorts a little laugh.

"Well, you're under adult supervision, so she can just relax," Charlotte commiserates, stealing a glance at Pete. He's got his eyes trained on the road ahead of them, arms crossed tightly over his chest. Being this pissed off isn't good for him, she knows that. Maybe taking him out for a little bitchfest wasn't the best plan. But hell, they're already on their way, so she might as well own it now. "Bein' cooped up is drivin' you nuts, isn't it?"

"_Violet_ is driving me nuts. She's about two days away from cutting my food for me."

She can't help it; she snickers again, shaking her head. "At the risk of sounding like I'm on her side, it's probably just her misguided way of showing she cares."

"Yeah, I get that. But she's hovering. I can take care of myself. I can dress myself, and shower on my own, and dictate my own damned schedule."

Out of her peripheral, she catches him take a deep breath, and frowns a little. "I'm not pesterin' and I'm only gonna ask once: you feelin' alright?"

He looks at her for a second, then shrugs a shoulder. "Just tired. I spent part of the day hauling boxes out of my office-"

"Are you stupid?" Charlotte asks, glancing at him again. "I mean, I get that you're on the mend, but schlepping boxes is probably not the best way to ease back in."

"Y'know, if you're gonna be like this-"

"Oh, shut it, Pete, I'm right and you know it."

"My office is a storage closet!"

"Which is rude, I agree, but you weren't supposed to be back yet, and pushin' yourself is only gonna set you back and get you stuck back at home with Violet even longer."

He frowns, and mutters, "I hadn't thought of it that way."

"See?" She taps her forehead once. "I'm a smart woman."

"I've never doubted that," he says, and Charlotte scoffs a little.

"Oh, I'm sure that's not true."

"It is," he insists, before adding, "A real bitch, but smart."

She laughs outright at that, and hears him chuckle next to her. "I see. Well, I'm sure Cooper would agree with you, at least today."

"I thought _you_ were pissed at _him_."

"Oh, I am," she assures, feeling that nagging tug of anger-hurt-betrayal that she's been carrying around since yesterday flare up in her belly again. "I'm furious. I wanna throttle him. If he hadn't been out drinkin', thus pretty much guaranteein' him needin' the toilet before morning, I'd have locked him outta the bedroom and made him sleep on the sofa last night. I'm seriously considerin' doin' it tonight."

"What'd he do?"

_Break my damned heart, again_, she thinks, but all she says is, "I'll tell you when we get there. If I talk about it while I'm drivin', I'm liable to crash the damned car."

"That bad, huh?"

"You have no idea."

"Where are we going, anyway?" he asks, as they pull up to a red light.

"Jerry's. Figured a diner'd be open late, and it doesn't revolve around booze – which neither of us can have."

"Unfortunately."

"Yeah," she sighs. "I could really go for a martini."

The light changes, she eases onto the gas.

Pete looks at her for a second, then, "Can I ask you a question?"

"Shoot."

"Why'd you stop drinking?"

Charlotte shifts a little in her seat, and frowns, unsure how much she should tell him. He already knows she's an addict, but how much he knows about Amelia's struggle is anybody's guess. Cutting off the booze was partly out of solidarity with Amelia, and while she feels in control enough now to have a drink if she wanted, she knows how pissed _she _would be if Amelia ever shared the private details of her addiction with anyone. So she opts for the personal route: "I'm an addict, Pete. A drug's a drug, and when you feel the way I did after the rape… it just seemed wise to cut the booze out, too. Safer than makin' excuses until I ended up in the bottom of a bottle."

It's not untrue – that was the other half of the reason she stopped drinkin'. So it's not like she's lyin' to him – on the contrary, she's bein' a lot more honest than she'd normally like to be. But this is Pete; he's seen her at her worst. She can afford to be honest with him.

Case in point: his only response is a nod, and a, "Makes sense."

"Plus, I just came from an NA meeting, and there's somethin' about drinkin' afterward that just seems wrong. Kinda like screwin' after church. Double the pleasure, double the guilt."

He laughs at that, and she smiles at him – that's what she was goin' for. A lot of the tension has bled out of him now; he doesn't seem quite so much like a gasket about to blow.

They lapse into silence, but it's not uncomfortable, and before too long they're parking the car and heading into the diner.

**.:.**

They settle into opposite sides of a booth, and flip their menus open. Pete skims the list and ticks off all the things he's not allowed to eat anymore. Thankfully, this is California, so there's plenty of salads and healthy crap he's sick of eating right now.

He glances up at Charlotte, who's frowning over her own menu, teeth working her bottom lip. She's a hardass, but he wonders if maybe, just maybe…

"Are you going to be all food police on me?"

Her gaze moves up to his, and she lets that bottom lip go, then frowns even deeper, studying his face, before saying to him, "Oh hell, order the cheese fries or a burger or whatever. Just promise me you'll be good for the rest of the month, and please don't drop dead when you get home, or I'll have to live with the guilt for the rest of my life."

He smirks, and nods, and thanks her, then looks for the most forbidden thing he can find.

"A guy's gotta live a little now and then, right?" she reasons, and Pete tells her it can be their secret.

Their waitress brings ice water, and asks if they're ready to order. Charlotte orders a California melt, but changes her order when Pete asks for the bacon cheddar cheeseburger and a side of mozzarella-smothered fries.

"Y'know, on second thought, I think I'll just have a Caesar salad," she tells the waitress, turning her attention to Pete, "That way I can help you eat that death wish you just ordered."

The waitress takes their drink orders (iced tea for her, Coke for him), and leaves, and Charlotte's still looking at him like he's crazy.

"You said I could have whatever I wanted."

"I did," she agrees with a shake of her head, unwrapping her straw, slipping it into her water, and then fiddling with the paper absently "I just didn't realize what you wanted was heart attack number two."

"A guy's gotta live a little now and then, right?" he parrots back at her, and she scoffs, then mutters, "Let's hope."

Her stomach rumbles so loudly he can hear it across the table, and he can't help the laugh that pops out of him. "Wow. That hungry?"

"I haven't eaten since lunch," she tells him sheepishly. "And barely had anything then. Spent most of today and half of yesterday cleaning up Cooper's mess."

"Right. We're here; there's no risk of vehicular manslaughter. What'd he do this time?"

Charlotte sighs heavily, and he watches her whole demeanor change. She looks suddenly tired, and like some of her fire's been burnt out. "He has this patient – a little girl, with leukemia, had a bone marrow transplant from her dad, but the leukemia came back."

"Oh God, what kind of Cooper Freedman I'll-die-for-my-patients stunt did he pull this time?" Pete mutters, knowing exactly how far Cooper's willing to go to save a patient. An orange jumpsuit and a face mottled with bruises come to mind.

"Exactly," Charlotte grumbles, bringing his attention back to the conversation. "We searched the public cord blood database, and nothin' came up. Cooper wanted me to search the private database; I told him no."

"Even if you'd done it, a search would've been pointless. It's not like he could use any of that blood anyway, not without permission from–" Oh. Of course. "Did he track down someone from the private database and guilt them into giving up their cord blood?"

"Oh, worse." The waitress comes back and slides their drinks onto the table, and Charlotte takes two deep swallows of her iced tea before continuing, "He snuck into my office, hacked into my computer, searched the private database, found a match, asked the family to donate, and then, when they told him no, _forged the dad's signature and used the blood anyway._"

Pete pauses mid-sip and just blinks. Then, he sets his glass down with a dull thunk. "Are you serious?"

Her head nods up and down, slowly, once, twice, a third time, and he's just gob smacked. He maybe shouldn't be, this is Cooper after all, but even for him this is big.

"That's theft," is all Pete can get out.

"Yes. It is," Charlotte confirms, and then she keeps talking. "The dad got suspicious after Cooper visited them, called the blood bank to check on their cord blood, found out the hospital had used it on a patient, and came stormin' into my office, spittin' mad. I showed him our signed release form, and he said it wasn't his signature, and… I knew. I knew right then, and I was so… _furious_. The dad threatened to sue-"

"And rightfully so."

"Oh, no doubt. If a hospital did that to me, I'd sue their asses for every penny I could get. Anyway, he said he was gonna sue, and I said I'd get to the bottom of it, and he left, and Cooper's just –" She takes a breath, a sip, starts anew. "I went to ream his ass out at the practice and he was all excited because the cord blood was workin', the leukemia was goin' away, like he hadn't just committed fraud, and theft, and gone behind my back to do it. So I yelled at him, told him he was childish and unprofessional, and had no self-control, and then stormed out. And then set about fixin' his damned mess, like always."

"How do you make something like this go away? It's not like you can give the parents back the blood, and there's no denying that the hospital – Cooper, obviously, but by extension, the hospital – is responsible for giving out something it had no authorization to use. It sounds like all they need is a handwriting sample from the family and they have an airtight case."

She's still messing with the straw wrapper, winding it around her fingertip and then pulling it off, over and over, until it's coiled like curling ribbon. It's an anxious move that seems out of place for her.

"I did things the Oceanside way," she says with a roll of her eyes. "Managed to get the dad of the leukemia kid to 'conveniently' happen across me talkin' with the cord blood parents, and be all grateful and excited, and ask them if they wanted to meet the kid whose life they just helped save."

"Wow, that's…" He smirks a little. "Not really your style."

"Not at all," she agrees, as the waitress arrives with their food. Pete takes a look at the sheer amount of cheese on his two plates and feels his veins harden just a little in anticipation. _Gotta live once in a while_, he reminds himself, and he takes a gleeful moment to picture the horror that would be on Violet's face if she saw what he was about to eat. The first bite of cheesy, bacony, beefy goodness is worth any nagging she could throw at him. The second is even better.

Charlotte's forking up bites of salad, but he can tell by way she's eyeing him that she's not done bitching about Cooper. That, or she really does think this burger's going to be the death of him, the anxiety is eating at her.

He's either coaxing them along or diffusing the tension when he urges around half a mouthful, "So, did it work?"

"Yeah," she says with a sigh. "Thankfully. They spent a little time with the family, then came and found me and said that while Dr. Freedman was completely out of line, savin' another family from the pain they went through was worth it, and they were willin' to take a small settlement and apology in lieu of actually suing our asses."

Pete's stuck a few words back: "The pain they went through?"

"Oh. Yeah. I didn't mention – that cord blood? Belonged to their dead son; they were savin' it in case his brother ever needed it. Which Cooper knew, by the way."

"You've gotta be kidding me," Pete mutters, shaking his head, and scooping up a few cheesy, salty fries. Just like the burger, the first bite is amazing – and this isn't even the kind of food he normally ate before the heart attack, but now that he can't have it…

"I wish I was. And of course you know now that it worked, and we're not bein' sued, he's gonna think he was totally justified and did the right thing. And I'm gonna be the ogre for bein' pissed at him for savin' a kid's life."

"Well, he had no right," Pete tells her. "Whatever the outcome, he broke the law. He risked his job, he risked _your_ job-"

"And that's just it!" she interrupts, but Pete doesn't mind. It gives him more time with his burger. "It's one thing if he wants to risk his own skin for a patient, but doin' it the way he did – breakin' into _my_ computer, usin' _my _password for the database – it doesn't just make him accountable, it makes _me _accountable. As far as anyone knows, I did the search, I fed him the info, I'm his accomplice in theft and fraud – Not to mention the blowback this could have on a practice that's already bein' investigated by the medical board. He can't just _do_ this. But he always does, and he always gets away with it."

He does, it's true, but there's a reason for that, and while he's almost reluctant to bring it up to her, this is Charlotte, and she appreciates honesty. So he goes for it: "Well, of course he does. You keep bailing him out."

Her face sours a little at that, and she mutters, "I know," as she stabs her fork into another piece of lettuce. "But what's the alternative, let him rot in jail?"

Pete shrugs. "Maybe. He's my friend, I care about him too, but if he's going to do things like this, then yeah, maybe. Let him suffer the consequences once."

She crunches on her lettuce for a minute, then swallows, and tells him, "I told him if he ever does somethin' like this again, I'm callin' the cops on him. I'm done protectin' him. He broke the _law_, Pete. Not just protocol, or procedure, or the accepted way of things. He violated the damned law."

But it goes deeper than that. He can see it in her face, in the overly sharp jut of her chin, in the way she keeps looking at the table instead of meeting his gaze. She's not just mad, she's hurt. Really, really hurt.

"He broke your trust."

Her mouth tightens for a second, eyes flashing angrily. "I know! And – God, y'know, I wish I was maddest about the law-breakin', about riskin' his job, and my job, and the hospital — but I'm not."

She doesn't even have to tell him; he knows. He'd feel exactly the same way: "You're pissed that he hacked into your computer."

She nods, slowly, then lifts an eyebrow and mutters, "Stupid."

"No, it's not. It's personal. The other stuff, that's business, and it's Cooper being Cooper and thinking he doesn't have to follow the rules, but doing it the way he did, that's personal. That's about the two of you."

"It's like he has no respect for my privacy, for my personal space, for our marriage. How would he feel if I went snoopin' in his computer? And why am I talkin' to you about this?"

Pete almost laughs at the sudden skepticism on her face. The way she's eyeing him suspiciously like he's somehow responsible for them sitting here. Like it wasn't her idea. But all he tells her is, "Because it makes you feel better."

"No, it doesn't. It makes me feel worse." The frown on her face, and the way she's murdering her lettuce with her fork again back up her words, but he likes to think he knows her just a little better than that.

"No. It doesn't." He pulls another fry out of the pile and watches the cheese stretch and string. "You just don't like admitting that sharing your problems might actually help."

"Now you sound like Sheldon."

Pete shrugs a shoulder. "Now I sound right. Either way, sitting here bitching to me about it keeps you from having to go home and bitch to him about it. So. There's that."

She nods, tugs the plate of fries closer to her side of the table and forks a few for herself. "There is that. Still. I'm done over-sharin'. Tell me about you and Violet."

Pete waves a hand dismissively. "That'll just raise my blood pressure, and I'm doing a good enough job of that with this dinner."

"Is it worth it?" she asks, but by the look on her face he can tell she already knows the answer.

"God, yes," he sighs, and she laughs a little at him.

"Good. If it kills ya, at least I'll know you died happy."

He smiles, ask her, "How's the salad?"

A shrug of her shoulder, and she answers, "It's alright. Caesar. Passable."

"You could've gotten what you wanted; you didn't have to help me with this."

"Are you kiddin'?" she asks with raised brows. "These cheese fries are delicious. You're just a good excuse."

He chuckles a little, takes another bite of his burger. She forks up another bite of salad, then another. For a few minutes, the conversation lulls as they eat, and then he catches her eyeing him like she's got something to say. He knows better than to rush her, so he just takes another bite, acts like he doesn't notice.

She sets her fork down.

"Can I ask you somethin'?"

He nods. "Sure."

"When did you know?" His brow furrows a little, so she clarifies, "What happened to me. When did you know the truth?"

It's a serious turn of conversation he's not expecting. He sets his burger down, takes a sip of his drink; he needs a minute to shift gears if they're going to be talking about this.

"I knew when I saw you," he tells her quietly, and she nods a little, like he's given her the answer she expected. "At least, I suspected when I saw you. I knew for sure when Addison kicked me out."

"How'd you know?"

She glances around like she's afraid they'll be overhead; thankfully, the nearby tables are empty, and they've dropped their voices enough to be private.

Pete clears his throat a little, remembers that night. The bruises. The blood. The way she'd crumpled against him and cried in the supply closet, and then bolstered herself and insisted she was okay to go. The adrenaline coursing through her hard enough to dull the pain of bruised and fractured bones. She'd been so hell-bent on escaping, on slinking out under the radar, unseen, in secret.

"You were hiding. Your dress was torn. The violence." He watches her swallow hard, then gulp at her iced tea. She's avoiding his eyes, but he's not surprised – frankly, he's shocked she even wants to talk about this in the first place. "Um, that kind of violence, against a woman, it's not, uh… You don't inflict that kind of damage without a purpose. I mean, some people do, but in my experience, if someone – if a woman – has been put through that much, there was a purpose. And I don't think you'd put up that much of a fight unless you were fighting for your life, or your body."

She's tearing the straw wrapper into tiny pieces now, and he can feel the slight tap-tap-tap of her shoe traveling from the foot of the table up to the surface. But he trusts her to stop the conversation if it gets to be too much for her. The ball's in her course.

"You never said anything." It's not accusatory, or questioning. It's just a statement. Just the truth.

"No."

"I lied to you, I lied to the cops. In front of you."

"Mmhmm."

"And you knew."

"Yeah, I knew. You said you told him he could take your wallet. More often than not, a mugger will take what he wants and get the hell out. That's why they always tell you to just give them what they ask for. If they stick around long enough to pound on you, they risk getting caught. It wasn't about the money."

"Did you tell Violet?" That one's just a touch accusatory, but he can understand why.

"No. She'd already figured it out when she asked me if I thought that had happened to you."

Another slow nod, and then, "What'd you say when she asked?"

"That if you had, and you'd told me, I wouldn't be able to tell her. Doctor-patient confidentiality."

She scoffs a little, lifts a brow at him. "You do realize you pretty much told her 'yes,' then, right? If the answer was no, you'd have just told her no."

He reaches for a french fry, although the cheese has started to coagulate now, becoming solid and greasy, and less appealing. It gives him something to do with his hands, though.

"I guess. I never really thought of it that way." He lifts the fry to his mouth, but before he takes a bite, he asks, "What brought this on? Not that I mind – we can talk about this all you want, it just seemed kinda… out of the blue."

She shrugs a little, pushes the white paper confetti around in front of her. A few of the wrapper pieces hit a damp ring from where her glass had been before the last time she set it down, and they soak up the water immediately, going from crisp white to damp gray.

"I've wondered, for a while. I had a feelin' you knew. And, um… I wanted to thank you. For the way you were. With me. That night, and… after. You knew – I knew you knew – I'm pretty sure you knew I knew you knew." He nods a little. The last few minutes were just lending voice to something that had been clear for a long time. "And you, uh, you never treated me with kid gloves, or like I was… weak." She takes a breath, and tells him, "You showed me a lot of respect, at a time where I really needed that, and… it helped. And I just wanted to tell you that…" She's speaking slowly, deliberately, and he wonders if this is something she's been wanting to do for a long time, but never had the chance to. "I'm here for you. Too. I know from life-changin' events, and I get the anger, and the frustration, and the… feelin' like everyone's treatin' you like you're made of candyglass, or about to go crazy any minute. And I just want you to know that I will show you the same respect you showed me. And that if you need anything – ever – you can call me."

This, he thinks, is why they're here tonight. Yes, she needed to vent, but she saw something in him that needed an opening, saw something of herself in his situation, and wanted to extend an olive branch. And people think she's heartless.

He smiles, nods, and tells her, "Thanks."

She nods, reaches for her fork, clears her throat a little, and the silence that settles between them seems heavy, weighed, claustrophobic.

Pete breaks it, taking her up on the offer to be there for whatever he needs. Right now he needs a confessional. "So I know that Violet leaving didn't cause my heart attack, but I am so pissed at her for going. I look at her, and I just see her walking out that door, leaving me with Lucas – again – and I know she couldn't have stopped it, but it's not like I just fell over and passed out, and then Cooper magically showed up. I had a heart attack, in front of my son, and I was awake for a while, trying to get to the phone before I passed out. And if she hadn't left, she'd have been there, and she'd have called an ambulance right away, and my son wouldn't have had to watch his dad collapse on the floor, and struggle, and wouldn't have had to watch Cooper try to revive me, and wouldn't have had to spend the entire night in the hospital with someone who wasn't his parent – and who doesn't charge their phone in an airport lobby, anyway?"

A laugh bubbles up out of Charlotte at that, and she tries to hide it behind her hand, before telling him, "I'm sorry. That wasn't funny. Ridiculous, though."

"Right? Who doesn't charge their phone when they fly?"

"And you know there were outlets; she flew first class, she was in a first class lounge when they finally got ahold of her."

"Exactly! So I get to be mad, right? I'm allowed to be mad at her."

"Sure, but it's not gonna get you anywhere. Like you said, she didn't cause it. I'm sure she didn't help, but her leavin' wasn't the thing that almost killed ya. And bein' mad at her for it isn't gonna change the way things happened. So you can be mad at her for goin', and let it eat you up, and tear your life apart, or you can deal with it. Move past it."

"If you're about to tell me I need therapy-"

"God, no. Please. Have you met me? I'm not recommendin' anyone sit around and talk about their feelings-" She wrinkles her nose like it's a dirty word, "all damned day." He can't help but smirk at the fact that she's spent the last little while doing just that. "You just have to figure out what works for you, what helps you through, and do that." She lifts a shoulder in a half-assed shrug. "You'll be alright."

Pete takes in the advice, watching as she excavates a fry from the plate in front of them. He takes another bite of his burger – now almost gone – and it's the bite that puts him over the edge. He's suddenly aware that he's full to bursting, the weight of the greasy dinner like a brick in his belly.

He drops the rest of the burger on the plate and mutters, "God, I think you're right. I am gonna die."

She looks up at him sharply then, and he's almost charmed by the concern she's not quite managing to veil. How had he not realized before this moment that they're really good friends?

"You mean that literally or figuratively?"

"Figuratively," he assures, blowing out a slow breath and grimacing a little at the bloated, over-full feeling in his belly.

Charlotte relaxes, lifting a brow that clearly says _I-told-you-so_, and asking, "Bit off a little more than you can chew, huh?"

"Literally."

"Well, then why don't we pay for this – my treat – and get back to our respectful troublesome spouses."

She flags the waitress and signals for the check, then digs into her purse to unearth her phone when it begins to ring.

She sees the name on the caller ID, and scowls deeply, sends the call to voicemail. Must be Cooper. "Make him sleep on the couch," Pete tells her, and he watches the corner of her mouth curve upward in a smirk.

"You know," That smirk spreads into one of those rare Charlotte King grins, "I think I will."

They pay, and leave, and when she drops him back at his place, Pete feels a little lighter, a little better.


End file.
